


Priorities

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re somewhere in the southern half of Iowa when they finally have to face the fact that they just might have to do laundry.  It’s all about priorities and having clean underwear is starting to top Sam’s list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priorities

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Livejournal 8-28-16.

**Title:** Priorities  
**Author:** [](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/)**dragonspell**  
**Series:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating:** PG-13 to an R  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Apocalypse is over fic.  
**Summary:** They’re somewhere in the southern half of Iowa when they finally have to face the fact that they just might have to do laundry. It’s all about priorities and having clean underwear is starting to top Sam’s list.  
**Word Count:** 2875  
**A/N:** This has no plot. No, seriously.

 

  
They’re somewhere in the southern half of Iowa when they finally have to face the fact that they just might have to do laundry. Dean’s been wearing the same pair of jeans for a solid three days, the same shirt for six, and they’re definitely starting to look it. Not to mention the fact that they’ve started rolling down the windows for more than just cooling off. Neither of them have worn underwear in about a week and Sam just can’t take it anymore.

Dean’s perfectly happy going commando but for Sam, underwear means something more than an article of clothing. Kind of like, if you’re wearing clean underwear, then no matter how much your life currently sucks, at least you have _some_ order in it. It’s all about priorities and having clean underwear is starting to top Sam’s list.

It’s kind of mind-blowing that they survived the Apocalypse but still have to do such mundane things as wash clothes. Sam doesn’t have a swelled head or anything about the whole saving the world gig but he just thought that things might have been…less normal afterward?

Apparently not. They still buy their underwear in packs from Walmart and still wash them in tiny little towns across the lower 48. Actually, most of the world is still completely unaware that there even _was_ an Apocalypse. The hunters and the victims and all those sensitive to such things know, but the general population? No freaking clue. They just think that they had a _really_ odd year. Frankly, there was more of an outcry about Michael Jackson dying. It makes it kind of nice, if only because it leaves places like the one they’re in now untouched.

He’s forced Dean to stop in what Dean termed “Cowfuck, Iowa, home of the cowfuckers” which really is just a sleepy little town in the south-eastern part of the state that Sam is sure doesn’t deserve Dean’s ire. It’s not bad, even if it looks like it never left the 1950s. Hell, parked out front of the laundry mat, the Impala even looks modern.

There’s not many people on the street, but the few that are, stare. It’s not like Sam can blame them. Dean looks like a tornado just touching down, all dark looks and clenched jaw and muttered profanity. He leans against the Impala and glares at the town like it’s personally offended him instead of just happening to be in between him and something worthwhile to do.

They don’t actually have anywhere to be, which is why Sam finally insisted that they stop. There’s no freaking reason why they have to be driving anywhere lately so damn it, they can stop for a few hours. Not that knowing that helps. Dean wants to keep busy, keep moving, because even a few years after striking down the Morning Star, he’s still a bit antsy. Understandable if annoying. Until they find another hunt, they don’t have anywhere pressing to be and Dean’s just going to have to live with that.

And no, Sam doesn’t want to visit Vegas or Tijuana.

The laundry mat is directly across the street from the grocery store which is right next to a mom and pop diner that has a sign out front advertising fresh blueberry pie for $2.50 a slice. Dean catches sight of the sign and his dark mood lifts just a fraction. Before he can push off and run and hide in the restaurant, though, Sam closes the trunk and gives him a flat look. “Dude, I’m not washing your underwear for you.”

Dean scowls, glancing over his shoulder at Sam. “Wasn’t asking you to, Sammy Homemaker.” His eyes flick back over to the diner and he grins, quick and sudden like having a tractor slam into you in the middle of a storm. “Besides, who says I need any?”

Sam rolls his eyes and picks up the garbage bags of laundry he’s already hauled out of the car. “You’re starting to smell.” He tosses Dean his bag and though he’s not looking, Dean catches it.

“I want some pie.” Sam’s carefully not looking at Dean because he knows exactly what kind of pout Dean’s wearing and exactly how fast he’d cave to it. Instead, he heads towards the front door.

Bells jingle as Sam enters the laundry mat. “We can get pie after,” he concedes.

Dean’s right behind him, looking like it’s Christmas. “You just remember you promised.” Sam rolls his eyes again because it’s not like he’s ever withheld pie from Dean before. That would be akin to suicide, what with all the bitching Dean would do afterwards eventually making Sam wonder if it’s possible to slit his wrists with the plastic spork the fast food place gave him for his salad a hundred miles back because all of his good knives are in the trunk.

The laundry mat is empty when they enter—just bank after bank of old industrial strength washers lining the walls surrounding a central island of dryers. Sam tosses his bag onto the dryers and starts to sort through the dirty clothes. He makes three piles, one for whites, one for darks, and one for stains he doesn’t want to think about. It’s kind of disturbing how big that third one gets. Dean, though, drops his bag on the floor and throws _himself_ on the bank of dryers. He scoots his pretty little ass up onto the counter above them and kicks his feet as he stares around the place. Sam glares but gets no reaction. He should probably be glad Dean actually carried his in.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t want clean clothes just like Sam—not that he actually enjoys wearing the same clothes day after day. No, at this point, it’s more the principle of the thing and the fact that Sam made him stop when he didn’t want to. With a sigh, Sam picks up Dean’s bag and starts sorting it too. After all, he’s going to be the one smelling them—Dean would eventually get used to his own rank scent; he has before. He knows he’s spoiling Dean, letting Dean get his way, but Sam knows he’ll think of a way to get Dean back later. Priorities—necessities first, pride and putting Dean in his place later.

Sometimes Sam thinks about maybe talking to Dean about settling down a bit. He wouldn’t exactly call it “retiring”—not if he wants Dean to actually go for it—but something close to it. He figures they’ve done more than their fair share nowadays, really. They wouldn’t have to stop completely—they could be like Bobby, with a place to stay during the downtime that isn’t on wheels nor does it charge by the night. The closer Sam gets to thirty, the more he thinks about it. And 30’s getting closer by the day now.

Right after Heaven and Hell had the knock ‘em down, drag out fight, neither Sam nor Dean had wanted to stay in one place very long. Now, though… Sam wonders if Dean would be okay with that.

They’re never going to have normal lives—not even with their cosmic destinies out of the way. The Apocalypse, if nothing else, made that very clear but Sam can think of worse fates than to be stuck for the rest of his life with Dean. Besides, even if it _is_ Dean he’s “settling down” with, it doesn’t mean that Sam can’t have that white picket fence. Sure, kids may or may not be out of the question—somewhere deep inside, Sam’s still kind of hoping he might be able talk Dean into that one of these days—but Sam could settle for a house plant or something. Hell, even a pet rock at this point. A pet rock and clean underwear.

The bells jingle as the doors open and both Sam and Dean turn towards the sound. A middle-aged woman enters, laundry basket on her hip and hair pulled back into a messy bun. She smiles briefly at them but doesn’t say as word as she sets up shop on the opposite side of the building. She ignores them as she starts pulling out clothes.

Dean’s got a Cheshire grin on his face and though Sam knows he means it to be irritating, Sam just feels incredibly fond. They survived the Apocalypse—he may still have to occasionally do his brother’s laundry but they’re alive. He smiles back and throws the last pair of jeans—stained black in places with ghoul blood—in the third pile. Dean arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t know doin’ laundry got you all hot and bothered, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes to the ceiling and hands Dean a twenty dollar bill. “Go get some quarters, jerk.” From the glint in Dean’s eye, Sam’s pretty sure he just lost at least $2.50 of the twenty but he wouldn’t have given Dean the bill if he’d thought otherwise.

Dean hops off the counter and even though the change machine is right in front of him, he sashays out the door and down the street. Sam can’t help himself—he watches Dean go, enjoying the way Dean’s ass fills out a pair of jeans. He kind of wants to whistle, just to see what Dean would do but manages to restrain himself. They’re in public, after all, and it’s more Dean’s thing to do the PDAs.

Instead, he nods to the woman who’s now staring at him, flashes her a nervous smile and heads to the change machine himself. Just his luck, though, the bill slot’s been taped shut, a black pen etching out “Out of Order” in the dark blue casing of the machine. Sam sighs and pulls out the few quarters he already has, hoping it’ll be enough to get him a load, maybe two. He shoves the first load of laundry into the washer, glancing up out of the corner of his eye and the room’s other occupant who Sam could swear is staring at him. He lets it go though because yeah, even he has to admit he can look a little shady. He starts a second load and then shrugs at the third because he’s out of change. The bells jingle as the woman leaves.

It’s been awhile since they’ve stayed in a place for more than a night. Sam wonders if he can’t talk Dean into “settling down,” maybe he can talk him into at least taking a vacation. That’s not in Vegas or Tijuana. Some place nice that maybe he could…take his time with Dean in. The sexual part of their relationship started with desperate, stolen gropes after battles and they’ve never really had the time to slow down after that. Sam’d like the chance to do that now. Sometime.

Waiting for Dean to come back, Sam settles into one of the cheap white chairs and pulls out a page of obituaries, folded so the outside shows only a tame article about a children’s choir heading to Washington D.C. He circles a few and ‘x’s out a few more before he runs out decides to start doing the crossword on the next page instead of going out to the car and getting another paper to start over. 15 across has him stumped when the door opens again. Instead of Dean, it’s a man in a t-shirt and jeans, slumping over to his own little corner of washers. Sam frowns and sets the paper down as he heads for the door. Theoretically, he knows there’s not much that could happen to Dean in a town like this but old habits die hard. A couple jostles past Sam and into the building as he steps out.

Surprisingly, Dean’s just outside but, considering he apparently bought his pie if the bag hanging from his hand is anything to go by, he doesn’t look happy. He’s scowling at a man who’s glaring right back. “What the fuck does that mean?” Dean snarls.

“You know what it means,” the man hisses back and Sam’s eyes narrow. Somebody looks ready for a fight.

So Sam steps directly behind Dean, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he gives his shot at looming. Apparently it works because the guy shrinks back. “Problem?” Sam asks and the guy’s already shaking his head.

“No problem,” he sullenly mutters, backing away.

“The Hell there isn’t!” Dean says.

Sam catches his arm. “Dean.” He’s pretty sure they could take on one drunk redneck but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to. Stomping a guy in a small town tends to attract the kind of attraction Sam’d rather avoid. Especially since now, after the Apocalypse BOTH him and Dean are listed as dead and buried.

Dean’s furious, though, hissing as Sam yanks him back inside the laundry mat. “He said that he doesn’t like ‘our’ kind!”

Sam’s brow furls. “ ‘Our kind’?” he asks. “What, like hunters?”

“No, dipshit,” Dean says and Sam suddenly realizes that everyone in the laundry mat is currently staring at them. …Staring at the “gay couple” have a domestic dispute in the middle of a laundry mat in Iowa. He glances around quickly before coming back to regard Dean who arches an eyebrow. “Clear now?”

“You mean he…?” Sam’s dumbfounded. Not that it’s not true, but _how the hell had the guy known?_ “What did you _say_ to him?” he whispers, ducking in close to Dean to try and shield their conversation from three pairs of eyes. Four if you count the guy outside who’s now glaring at them through the window. Actually, five because, fuck it all, the guy outside is now whispering furiously to the middle-aged housewife that had previously been doing her laundry. Sam groans. She'd definitely caught him staring at Dean’s ass, then.

Dean glares and crosses his arms, defiant, but when he answers, his voice is quiet. “Nothing! I just went to the diner and bought some damn pie! The next thing I know, he’s stopping me on the street saying 'we don't like your kind,’ whatever the hell that means! Who knows how the Hell these people think?”

Sam grabs Dean’s arm and hauls him over to the dryers. “Never mind,” he tells him. “Just…sit.” He doesn’t know if the two outside are going to cause any trouble or not but he figures that they’ve got a few minutes before they get brave enough to do anything. The washers gear out of the spin cycle, slowing down a stop and Sam opens the first one, touching the damp clothes, wondering how bad they’re going to mildew if they don’t dry them soon.

Dean’s staring out the front windows, though, at the redneck and the housewife and his eyes narrow. “Naa,” he says and that’s the only warning Sam gets before Dean’s hauling him in by his shirt for a full-blown kiss.

Sam’s eyes widen and his hands latch onto Dean’s shoulder, unable to decide between pulling him closer like his dick is suddenly throbbing for or shoving him away like his rational mind is screaming for. Dean makes that choice for him, though, when his tongue slips past Sam’s lips and his hands grab Sam’s ass. Before Sam’s aware of what he’s doing, he’s already slipping into habits formed through years of adrenalin-fueled quickies and he picks Dean up and shoves him onto the dryers.

Dean pulls back, laughing. “Attaboy, Sammy.” He wraps his legs around Sam and Sam realizes that people aren’t just staring now. They’re gawking.

He drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder as he feels himself flush. “Damn it, Dean.” If they weren’t in trouble before, they are now. The couple outside are gone and Sam’s willing to bet his favorite blade they’re running to the local sheriff.

“Hey,” Dean says, “I figured that if we were going to get run out of town for being fags or something, we might as well do something to get run out of town FOR.” He rolls his hips against Sam’s and Sam hisses as his dick swells just a little more. “So, what’d’ya say, little brother? Fuck me in the laundry mat?”

The bells jingle again and Sam’s left glaring at Dean in a suddenly empty building. “I hate you.”

“Nah,” Dean says with a grin, a finger tapping Sam on the nose. “You love me. Now grab our shit so we can blow this town of cowfuckers before the cops get here.”

Sam snarls and grabs the empty trash bags, stuffing them full of wet clothes. For once, Dean helps but he’s cackling as they slam the Impala’s doors and peel out of Cowfuck, Iowa. They screech around a corner, Impala doing 80 not because they’re being chased but just because Dean wants to, and Dean waggles an eyebrow at him. “Pie’s in the backseat,” he says and Sam stares at him incredulously.

“Seriously. We almost get arrested for public indecency and you’re worried about _pie_?”

“Man’s got to have priorities, Sammy.”

They’re somewhere in Illinois when Sam makes Dean pull over so he can strip him down, lay him out on the hood of the Impala and smear a slice of pie over Dean’s chest so Sam can lick it off. “Priorities” is right.


End file.
